Disclaimer: I own nothing.

For people who read my stuff a lot, this is probably the most appropriate story I've ever written. It only curses once and isn't sexual at all. Weird, right? I know.

Note: There's some stuff that I say happened that hasn't actually happened in the canon. You'll know it when you see it. Just don't freak out and think you missed something, I just am adding things for my own uses.

Also, this starts out feeling angsty, but I swear, this is not an angst story. Just bear with me.

Usually, when a person really wants to drink, they call up some mates and try to get together for something, because no person really wants to drink alone. It only makes them feel worse, normally.

Well, John sometimes got to a point where he really did want to drink alone. He'd get into a state where he was so frustrated with one thing or another that he just needed to be alone, or he might take it out on someone he loved. Couldn't do it in the flat, since most of the time the point was to get away from his insufferable flat mate. So he ended up at a pub, sitting at the bar by himself, ordering whiskey after whiskey and moodily staring at the condensation against his glass and the wood of the counter. He didn't get like this all that frequently, honestly. He wasn't in denial when he said he wasn't an alcoholic. But sometimes, you just run out of options.

The first time he did it was soon after he met Sherlock, when he wasn't accustomed to the man's cruelty and became extra-insulted by one of the things he said. The next time was more than a year later, when a girlfriend, in a fit of anger, said that if he were kind, he'd never date anyone ever again, so he could save them the heartache. Then the next time Sherlock jumped off a bloody building, and that'd admittedly taken a week straight of lonely drinking before he forced himself to find some other way to work off his despair—he chose working out twice a day, which seemed healthier. The next was the day Sherlock came back from the dead. The time after that was when he figured out that his wife was secretly someone completely different than he had originally thought. The time after that his wife and unborn child were killed in a car accident—John was in almost constant danger and they died from something like that? The irony was painful. Admittedly, that lasted more than a day too. The time after that was when he found the letter that said she didn't die in the accident at all—that she'd been close, and she had a miscarriage because of it—but the accident itself was a well-disguised attempt on her life and she decided that, for his safety, she had to leave him forever. Also ironic, her trying to keep him out of danger when he hadn't been strong enough to do the same for her. Not to mention this wasn't the first time someone faked their death in his life. But afterwards, John demanded that Sherlock figure out where she went, but even he couldn't find her—John had been mad at him for that for weeks, actually.

But it had been a few years now. He was settling back into the way of things. Living with Sherlock again. Solving cases all the time. He was content with it. Happier than he felt he should have been, actually. Somehow he thought that he was supposed to be sad and alone for the rest of his life, after losing Mary and the nameless child he never really knew. And after he figured out that she wasn't even dead, he thought maybe he was supposed to feel angry and betrayed forever. But eventually, he was okay. He didn't even begrudge Mary as much as he maybe should have. He knew where she was coming from.

Maybe that girlfriend of his was right. He should just stop dating. It never went well.

But anyway, compared to his usual reasoning for going to drink by himself, this one was rather tame. Nobody had died—or in the end pretended to die—just to keep John safe today. No, today Sherlock was being cruel, as usual. John could hardly even remember what he actually said, just that it hurt his feelings. Which was stupid, of course, because after knowing Sherlock for somewhere around ten years now, he should have been used to this.

But he wasn't, it seemed, because the cabbie stopped him out front of his favorite pub, and he walked inside alone.

He didn't quite come here often enough for the bartender to know him by name, but he did recognize John.

"Bad day, mate?"

John chuckled harshly. "Yeah, a bit."

"Nobody's dead though, right?"

"Not this time, no."

"Then that's a bonus."

"Yeah, s'ppose so."

He ordered his whiskey and the drink spread warmth through him. He then tried to remember what Sherlock had said to offend him. Strangely enough, even though he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was, he was still really put out by it.

He was put out by Sherlock even more than usual lately. John would be lying if he said he didn't notice it. Something was… different. He didn't know what. He didn't know how. But some things Sherlock said got under his skin more than they used to. And others were endearing in a way they never were. And…

Oh, it made no sense. There was no point in trying to figure it out.

John felt it when someone took a seat next to him. He glanced over and saw a man with a hunched back and a scraggly beard. He was probably in his sixties.

"How you doing, Finnegan?" he asked the bartender with a Cockney accent.

"Alright, George. You?"

"Oh, you know," the man grunted.

The bartender nodded somberly as if he really did know. "The usual?"

He nodded with a grunt. Then he looked over at John. "You're too young to be looking so down, son."

John let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh. He hadn't been referred to as young in a very long time. "Life doesn't wait to give you shit days until you're ready."

"Yeah. That's truer than you know."

John usually would have stopped the conversation there, but he suddenly got curious. "What's got you down?" he enquired.

George sighed. "Would you believe an old man like me is having relationship problems?"

John chuckled. "I'd believe it." It was only then that he remembered what he got mad at Sherlock about. Which made him add, "I sort of am too."

George glanced over. "The wife?"

John laughed again, even though George didn't know he had said something funny. "Might as well be," he muttered, before saying more seriously, "Oh, it's just my flat mate. He made another date of mine leave in tears and then proceeded to tell me it was my fault for choosing such vapid women."

"Well, are they?"

John looked over. "What?"

"Are they vapid women?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, they aren't. Sherlock just thinks everyone's stupid." he sighed. "I just don't understand him. Why does he care so damn much if I date people? He doesn't much like anyone, but he's even worse with women I bring home. If it weren't him, I'd think it's some form of jealousy. But… he's just not like that." He stared at the wood grain for a long moment before he glanced back over at George. "Sorry. This probably sounds stupid to you." John was surprised he spoke with him so easily. His therapist wasn't far off when she said John had trust issues.

"No, it's interesting," George insisted. "And I'd rather think about your problems than mine." They were both quiet for another long moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Then George said, "I think you're asking the wrong questions."

John tilted his head. "What questions should I be asking?"

"It sounds like this Sherly-whatever is unpleasant."

"Unbarablely."

"And that he treats everyone badly."

"Yes."

"Then why do you put up with him?"

John sighed. "He's got good qualities, he really does. He's a genius. He's—"

"Wait, do you mean Sherlock Holmes? From the papers?"

"Yeah."

"So you're John Watson."

"I am."

"Wow," George muttered. "Like meeting a celebrity."

"I don't know about that," John chuckled, embarrassed.

"But still," George insisted, "Even if he's a genius and you solve crimes and all that, and even if you think he's a great man… why does his opinions on your girlfriends even bother you?"

John was about to answer, until he realised he didn't have one. He and Sherlock fought every time he brought a girl home now. And then John got unnecessarily upset over said rows. he wouldn't bring home a girl for weeks, but then he'd get lonely and find another and the whole cycle just kept going and going and god, why couldn't Sherlock just let him be happy?

"It bothers me because he's my friend and I don't know why he wants me to be miserable."

George looked over with some surprise in his dark eyes. "You think he wants you to be unhappy? I wouldn't say that."

"You don't know him," John murmured darkly.

"I don't, true, but I've read about you two. I'm pretty sure that's not what's going on in his head."

"Then what's going on in his head? Because I don't understand it one bit."

The man gave a long sigh. Then he said, "I said I've been having relationship problems. But here's the truth. I was in love once. With the most beautiful person who ever lived. And I was scared—petrified—to tell them how I felt. Then I let them slip away. And every day, I regret that choice. How could I let—" He sighed again. "Before we stopped talking, I saw them with someone else and all I could think to do was hate all those men. Because I was so afraid to say the truth."

John nodded in sympathy. "That's hard," he agreed.

"It is. And… maybe familiar?"

John didn't like to think of himself as obtuse, but it didn't occur to him until that moment that George was trying to compare his own life to John's.

But that would imply…

"What, you think Sherlock has feelings for me?"

"Wrong question again. That's irrelevant. How do you feel, John?"

John grumbled irritably. "I'm not gay, contrary to popular opinion."

"Yes, I didn't think I was either. Until one day I realised that every women I dated brought me no satisfaction. That when I was with them, I had to be someone else and all along, it was my best friend that I could be me with. And he happened to be… a he. He was openly gay, but I was straight. I was sure I was. And I never said anything and then we stopped talking and then… he died. And it was too late."

John was suddenly too aware of the fact that they weren't alone in the bar. There were two other men sitting within a few stools of them, probably in earshot. And John was having a crisis.

This man had just said his whole life story back to him. He made John realise all the things he'd never wanted to, made all of the pieces pop together in his head in a way they never had. Sherlock… he and Sherlock… were…

It seemed impossible. An infinitely strange coincidence that they would meet in this same pub, at the same time, with the same problem…

In fact… maybe it was… too strange.

John realised, just in time so he didn't say anything embarrassing, what was happening.

He stood up, huffing in anger. "Okay, Sherlock, I admit, this disguise was good, but come on. What's the point in this? Are you trying to embarrass me to death?" 'George' looked up to John with bewildered eyes. "Oh, don't give me that," John snapped. "Game's over. I figured you out. Now take off the beard, will you?"

Only then did 'George' allow recognition to enter his face. "Oh. You think I'm—John. I'm not Sherlock Holmes. Look," he said, tugging on his beard hard. "It's firmly attached. And this is my hair. I promise you, I'm not him."

John glared at him. "Then how did you know all that? How did you know how I feel when I date women, how Sherlock's the only one I feel real around?"

George looked a little smug. "Because I know a mirror image when I see one. And you're me a decade ago. I can only hope you make the right decision where I didn't."

John's mouth was suddenly very dry indeed. He slapped down money for his drink—too much money, at that—and left the pub without so much as a goodbye. Which wasn't fair to George, since he was just trying to help.

But this… this wasn't helpful. This just complicated everything. Because John felt like a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could suddenly see everything that he couldn't before.

And he knew one unfortunate truth.

He had feelings for Sherlock.

He had for a long time.

No. No no no.

He couldn't do this to himself. This was stupid. He would only get himself hurt thinking like this—because this was Sherlock, and there was no way he felt the same.

John didn't know where he was walking. He was too far from the flat to walk, really, but he hadn't hailed a cab yet.

Just then, a cab stopped next to him.

And Sherlock stepped out. So causal, like he was invited. He stepped into stride next to John.

"It took me longer than it should have to find you. It didn't occur to me that you'd go to this pub tonight, since it's usually reserved for tragedies. Then I didn't see you and I knew you had to have walked in this direction because—"

"Sherlock, go away."

"Oh, come on, you're not in a strop over what I said still, are you?" John rolled his eyes. Why did he like this man again? He was about to say something before Sherlock added, "I swear, I'm only trying to save you trouble. Trying to find happiness in those women will never work."

John suddenly thought back to something George had said. How he was pretty sure Sherlock didn't just want him to be miserable. Maybe he was right.

"Why do you think that?" John finally asked. He'd never bothered to ask that before. He'd told Sherlock to bugger off, but he'd never asked for his logic. "Why are you so sure that none of these women could make me happy?"

Sherlock stopped walking, so John did too. He looked serious in a way he usually didn't. "Because in a world of insipid morons, you're one of the few people that's got real spark. You deserve so much better than any of them."

"What, like you?"

John hadn't meant to say it. He couldn't believe it came from his mouth.

It was George's fault. John should go back and punch that guy in his smug face.

John started to walk away, halfway between horrified and furious.

And then he heard Sherlock.

"You deserve better than me as well."

John stopped in his tracks, blinking. What had Sherlock just said? He turned and Sherlock was closer than he expected. "I… what?"

If John didn't know any better, he'd say Sherlock looked a little embarrassed. "You're… John… Come on. Don't tell me you still don't know."

Maybe John shouldn't have immediately known what Sherlock meant. But it was secretly what he had been hoping since the start of this conversation, so it wasn't surprising his mind had no difficulty making the leap.

Sherlock felt the same.

John blinked a couple of times. Tried to say something. Nothing came out. Tried to breathe. That wasn't working either.

Sherlock looked amused now. "Oh, John. Come on. Even you aren't this dense." John was trying to figure out what to do, or say, or anything. He was starting to smile.

And then Sherlock ruined it by starting to talk some more. "Then again, I was dense about it too. Neither of us are good with matters of the heart, I suppose. It took a hired actor to your left and me eavesdropping to your right to even confirm you felt the same."

John blinked again, but the dreamy look on his face turned baffled. Then cross.

Not Sherlock in a disguise to his left. Sherlock in a disguise on his right while John was being distracted by an actor on the other side.

So it was Sherlock. It felt too convenient to be accidental. John's gut had been right.

John was angry at first. Ready to punch Sherlock.

And then he realised that this was probably the most affectionate thing Sherlock had ever done. He wanted to know so badly if John requited his feelings that he hired an actor to figure it out. Sure, he could have just asked like a normal human, but this was Sherlock. Normal he was not.

So John smiled, and reached up to put his hand on Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked nervous again. Unsure what to do.

"Why didn't you just ask?" John finally asked.

"You didn't even know yourself until George informed you. I knew the direct approach wouldn't work with you."

He had a point. John laughed a little, and Sherlock did too.

"So… where does this leave us?" asked John.

Sherlock reached up and took the hand from his face, lacing his fingers between John's. "Is that an adequate start?" asked Sherlock.

John was really grinning now. "Yes, I suppose so."

And they walked back to Baker Street together, hand in hand.